


love someone

by Togaki



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, High School, Humor, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, will add tags as story is updated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Togaki/pseuds/Togaki
Summary: When you love someone, you open up your heart.--A series of ficlets within the same fictional universe wherein two idiots are crazy for each other.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really like SakuAtsu as a couple, and I’ve had this concept in mind for a while. Sometimes I lack the motivation to write a full-blown fic about them, so this is my compromise to satisfy my own selfish desires. I'll mostly update as I write. 
> 
> The title is from the Lukas Graham song, which is basically my SakuAtsu anthem.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atsumu makes a call. Kiyoomi wants to kiss. Osamu breaks the bowl.

It isn’t easy to slip away from dinner. Osamu drills him with a lazy expression that says he knows something but just doesn’t know _what_ yet, but when he figures it out, ooh is Atsumu gonna burn in hell. 

Their dad sits on a barstool at the kitchen counter, eyes glued to their box TV relic filched from the 1980s. The V. League is on, and if anything runs through their family, it’s their love for the sport. Though, the color on the TV isn’t great. And sometimes it cuts out intermittently; the footage can also get so fuzzy that his dad has to stand up and literally walk over to crank the knob. It’s that old school. They would buy a better TV, but Kita’s granny was spring cleaning, and his dad was cheap, so they somehow adopted the piece of junk. But at least he’s not paying attention to Atsumu, which would theoretically make it marginally easier to dip without fanfare. 

Except then there’s Atsumu’s mom. She spends dinner chattering about so-and-so’s daughter and how this or that person just has the _worst_ attitude when they come in for an appointment, and honestly, aren’t socialites just so gossipy? She works at a nail salon part-time while he and Osamu go to school. It’s like she absorbs the snootery from the place she works at and dumps all of her frustrations on them during the only time nobody has any escape. And Atsumu _literally_ has no escape.

On a normal night, he and Osamu would take one side of their square table while their parents sit on the other. But tonight, his dad’s at the counter engrossed in half a black and white muted screen of volleyball, Osamu’s devouring rice while scrutinizing Atsumu from his normal spot, and Atsumu’s been pulled over to the dark side to sit next to his lonely and glibbish mother. 

She has a tight grip on his knee like she’s buckling him down for winter, and she has this deranged sort of look in her eye as she goes on and on about the Fujimoto’s only daughter. How she’s the daughter of so-and-so and how she really isn’t all that pretty but she’s smart and proper and _definitely_ seems to like Atsumu—and because his mother is a sucker for a cliched school girl romance, why not give it a go? Oh, but did she mention that the Fujimoto’s daughter is only in middle school? 

Atsumu itches to explode, but he knows from that time with the microwave that _no one_ crosses the Miya matriarch. Even though she’s only a 150 centimeter woman, she possesses the strength of three bears, enough to easily rip off a microwave door. He’s not brave enough to learn what else she’s capable of. 

Osamu judges him silently, staring at him with cheeks coated with rice grains. He looks so happy, so smug like that while casually stuffing his face with side dishes. It doesn’t even occur to him to give a brother some help while their mom all but plans Atsumu’s fantastical wedding with the Fujimoto girl already. 

There are llamas in the ceremony. Oh god. 

He sends a telepathic plea to his twin brother, begging—no, _kowtowing_ — for some intervention. He’ll do anything. Pudding, returning jackets he never gave back, giving answers for tomorrow’s homework sheet. He can’t actually provide that last one since he hasn’t done it himself, but that’s how desperate he is. He is willing to do _Osamu’s_ homework to get out of this situation. 

But Osamu doesn’t answer his emergency dial on either the first ring when Atsumu’s mom is asking if he prefers a Western or traditional ceremony, or the _fourth_ ring when his mom is already choosing the flower girl. Or maybe Osamu just chooses to ignore it. It doesn’t even occur to Atsumu that perhaps wiggling his eyebrows and making pained, demented expressions at his brother doesn’t equate to twin telepathy, but screw that. They were conceived with the same sperm and egg; they knew everything about each other. 

Well, except maybe one thing. 

Atsumu looks desperately at the clock. It’s a quarter to seven. If he doesn’t sneak away soon, he’ll lose his opening to the damn Mr. Clean commercial at the commercial break, and once that’s on, it’s all downhill from there because there’s a goddamn two-hour-long nature documentary that follows and to hell if even one precious minute is missed. 

He’s about to toss everything out to the wind and just claim he’s suffering from an untimely episode of constipation, but then—the TV stalls, his dad walks over, bangs it a few times, cranks the knob, cranks the knob too _hard_ , the knob goes flying, and then only light fixture dangling over their tiny dining table is knocked straight out of its ceiling hookup. It rips a small hole out of the ceiling; wires dangle out like strains of fleshy muscle. The cover bounces twice on the table like a soccer ball before rolling off and cracking on the ground; meanwhile the lightbulb unscrews itself out of its rickety lodgings and shatters into pieces atop their _very flammable_ placemats. 

A fire starts and he hears a scream. He thinks it’s his mom, who takes Atsumu’s knee and squeezes _hard._ Or maybe he’s the one screaming. He’s not really sure what spills out of his mouth because a lot of what he hears is “oh fuck!” and “Samu, don’t put yer hand in there! Leave the rice!” as he’s standing up to back away. 

The rice is a lost cause. The fire burns high, and it’s an inopportune time to learn that their fire alarm is out of battery and that their sprinklers are rusted and inactive inside their tiny home. 

He grabs a pot lid from the counter and slams it on the fire only to remove it and discover it burning even higher. He shrieks after he slams it again, and the fire is close to licking his fingers. He’s crossed between grabbing their fern pot and chucking it into the fire like it’s an offering, or betraying his mom and running away, concluding that he had lived a good life in the Miya household. 

Before he can make the choice to become a humble peddler, however, Osamu takes the lid from Atsumu and calmly slides it over the fire, watching with the eyes of an exhausted man as he solves in a matter of seconds the mess Atsumu had made exponentially worse.

It’s with forlorn that Osamu stares at his burnt food. Somebody must have died: that’s how much emotion Osamu has on his face. 

After a moment or two of silent mourning, Osamu snaps out of it. 

“It’s dark,” he says, like he’s reading the headline of the morning newspaper. 

The room had been illuminated like a light show earlier, but now the only thing left flickering is the broken 1980s box television with its terrible fuzzy footage. 

Atsumu surveys the broken light fixture and looks at the wires jutting out of it. Somehow, it’s still attached to the ceiling. Just… dislocated. 

“Ya think this is saveable?” Atsumu asks. He’s already calculating the costs to fix it himself—rewiring the fixture, buying a new one, bargaining for parts from the shop—and when he finishes his mental calculations, he cringes. It would be cheaper to tear it out completely and hire a technician to install a new light fixture. 

Osamu isn’t listening because he has his hand stuck in a bowl of charred umeboshi. 

His dad comes up behind him, places a hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. 

It’s weird because his dad is shorter than either he or Osamu, so he has to look down at him. Nobody really knows where the genes for two six-foot monsters came from.

Little man says, “Nothing’s not worth fixin’. We could try. I’ve got some glue and screws in the shed. Bulbs might be in the attic.” 

Atsumu lights up. He checks the clock one more time and sees that it’s ten minutes til Mr. Clean’s spotlight. Seeing his opportunity, he ditches his jumpy mom and leaves her in the hands of one sighing dad who obviously didn’t think an old box relic would somehow lead to one hefty electrician bill, and one currently sickly green high school boy who _obviously_ knew how unhealthy charred food was but still ate it anyway. 

“I’ll go check!” 

He sprints up the creaky stairs, taking two at a time in his slippery socks until he slides on wood flooring to the middle of the second floor hallway. A thick rope hangs from the ceiling outside the bathroom, and he pulls on it, tugging down a ladder. He climbs it, and at the same time he fishes out his phone from his shorts’ pocket. 

As his head pokes into the tiny attic, dust and cobwebs attack his face. He’s spitting out tiny spiders and dust bunnies as his phone screen rings a few times. Once he’s all the way in, he pulls the attic ladder up, sealing the entrance just in case Osamu or somebody decides to follow him and eavesdrop.

He crawls to sit on a shaggy carpet surrounded by tall stacks of cardboard moving boxes, family memorabilia, old incense and portraits, and generally whatever other crud they couldn’t shove in the shed. 

He leans against the wall. Pulling his knees in, his eyes train fervently on the bright screen in front of him. He whispers a mantra under his breath, praying that the goddamn man hasn’t already started his routine for the night. 

Tense seconds pass until—

“Omi!”

Euphoria spreads through Atsumu’s chest and blooms on his cheeks. 

The raven-haired boy looks like he just crawled out of the covers. His hair is fluffed in every direction, and there’s a mark on his nose that’s either from his glasses or from his face mask, though it’s probably the former since Atsumu knows Sakusa hasn’t gone out today. It’s a Sunday. This is their day. 

Sakusa looks uninterested as per usual, but there’s a tiny pout on his lips that would be nearly unidentifiable if not for the immense concentration Atsumu puts into memorizing his features during each of their brief calls so he can recall every detail even in his dreams. 

Sighing airily, Atsumu says, “Ya look cute.” 

Sakusa snorts. He rolls his eyes. 

Atsumu just smiles. Even the man’s snoot can’t turn him away. 

“Great line. Is that how you save yourself every time you show up to something late? By flirting shamelessly?”

“Hey! I ain’t late! We never set up a time to begin with. If anything, ya should be proud of me for knowin’ to call ya before Mr. Clean shows up to sweep ya off yer feet and my fifteen seconds of fame are up,” Atsumu says, gesturing dramatically even though the only one who can see it is him. He hits a cabinet case and flinches, reflexively pulls back his hand to rub it. “‘Sides, the only one worth flirtin’ with is ya.”

Sakusa looks almost touched for a second. 

They talk for a bit, talking mindlessly about their day. It’s mundane conversation, but to him, it sets off flutters in his stomach. 

Atsumu wishes their video calls weren’t limited to Sunday evenings. He doesn’t know Sakusa’s exact situation, but he knows it’s unique, which is why he’s never pushed. Well, first he had to experience the cold shoulder for two lonely weeks, but after that, he knew not to push. Still, once-a-week glimpses from behind a screen aren’t enough. He wants to _see_ Sakusa; he wants to hold him and caress him and treasure him preciously. But they’re 500 kilometers from each other, and he can’t afford to break his bank for as often as he would like to see Sakusa. 

“Are ya in yer room this time?” Atsumu asks, because he’s never seen Sakusa’s room before. Throughout their entire short lived correspondence, he has never once seen the interior of the Sakusa household. All he knows is that it’s big, has many rooms, and is always dark. Well, the dark part mostly comes from Sakusa insisting on video calling at night with the lights off. Which, hey, Atsumu isn’t complaining. It sets the mood. 

“No,” Sakusa says, scrunching his nose. He’s like a cat. “I’m in another part of the house.” 

“Are ya ever gonna show me yer room? I wanna see where ya sleep.” 

Sakusa opens his mouth disgustedly, ready to retort with the same thing he says every time, but then he hesitates. His eyes lower. His cheeks dust a bit, and he looks almost _shy_. “Maybe some other time.” 

Atsumu lets out a shaky breath, a little turned on by this sudden embarrassment. “Take yer time. I’m patient.” 

The raven-haired man scoffs. He looks playfully at Atsumu. “Right. _Patient_ ,” he stresses, as if he doesn’t know that Atsumu paces inside his foyer every time he waits for the pizza delivery man, grumbling about how much faster _he_ would be as an employee, even though literally only five minutes have passed since he placed the order.

Atsumu opens his mouth to say something, but what comes out instead is a loud sneeze caused by 5-inch-high dust and poor attic ventilation.

The sneeze is strong enough to rattle a few unstable boxes. They teeter off their loose placement and land on his head. He groans. He bets the new bumps are indistinguishable from the ones caused by Osamu’s “missed” serves. 

Sakusa narrows his eyes. “And where exactly are _you?”_

“Oh,” he says, rubbing his head. He can grab ice later. “I’m in the attic.” 

“Why?”

There’s something gentle in his tone, something there in his voice that shows Atsumu that Sakusa is _interested_. It just takes a few falling boxes and attic allergies to dig it out. 

So he tells him about dinner, about how his mom was trying to set Atsumu up with the Fujimoto’s middle school daughter, about how his dad unexpectedly took off the knob off the TV and indirectly started a fire because of it, and how Atsumu is _technically_ in the attic because he’s supposed to be searching for a nonexistent lightbulb. 

Sakusa lets the tiniest smile show. “A middle schooler, huh? Are you not confident or something?”

Atsumu blushes inadvertently. He’s glad it’s dark enough in the attic that it’ll be difficult to make out, but then he remembers that his screen is bright enough to capture his face. When he checks his own icon, sure enough, he looks like a raspberry. 

“Be a little jealous, will ya? Yer man nearly got handed away in an arranged marriage. Aren’t ya gonna fight for me?”

Sakusa grins this time, and Atsumu’s just _gone._

“Unlike you, I’m quite confident,” he says, and his voice dips low and alluring. “You’ll just crawl back to me in the end.” 

“She might chain me up like one of those racy dominatrixes.” 

“And you’ll spend every second wishing it were me.” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Yer probably right.”

Atsumu is incredibly aware of the time in the corner of his phone. It’s ten minutes past seven, ten minutes past Mr. Clean, and ten minutes past the time Sakusa has always ended the call. He knows how much Sakusa’s routine means to him, so he wants to point out that he’s late, but he’s afraid that if he hangs up now, Atsumu will be left with the loneliest taste of knowing he _had_ Sakusa but then let him go. And he _really_ likes talking to him. He likes looking at him; he likes just being with him. 

But still, he knows when he’s been spoiled, and Sakusa has done nothing but spoil him rotten tonight.

Shifting nervously, he says, “Hey uh, Omi, ya should probabl—”

Sakusa leaves no room to breathe. 

“Miya, do you want to kiss me?”

Atsumu drops his phone. He clambers to pick up the cracked phone. He’s choking. 

The answer is yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. But that doesn’t matter, because—

“Do _you?”_ he nearly shouts as he holds his phone like it’s his precious child he didn’t just drop. 

Sakusa quiets. He hides his face in his hand, but there’s no hiding the pink in his ears. “I think so.”

Atsumu’s always wondered what kissing Sakusa would feel like. Every single time they have a call, his eyes are instantly drawn to the plump, soft lips, which can either draw in a smile or a frown, but will send Atsumu to heaven either way. He didn’t think Sakusa would be interested in touching, much less kissing. Holding hands? Maybe, so long as Atsumu wears gloves. But lip locking? That involves spit. 

Well, maybe Atsumu is getting a little ahead of himself here, skipping from chaste kisses to full on French-style. 

He’s on his knees, raising his phone like it’s his lord and savior, bursting at the thought of kissing Sakusa. 

“Omi, if yer serious, I will empty my bank account and book a ticket to Tokyo right now. I’ll be there in the morning, and ya can ‘think so’ all ya like on it while I’m there. Oh, say yes, Omi, please say yes.” 

“ _No,_ ” Sakusa says a little quickly, and Atsumu deflates. He thinks he might have jumped the gun there, but then the raven-haired man blushes deep red as he removes his hand from his face. “I just meant— It’s just a— Hypothetically… ” he ends lamely. 

Here’s the thing about Sakusa: he can recite dirty language like it’s the Bible, but as soon as it applies to _him_ , he’s as timid as a baby sheep. And, oh, _baby_. 

It’s probably a bad time to feel half-hard, but Sakusa can’t see, so Atsumu plows through shamelessly. 

“I’ll take care of ya real good, Omi,” he says, licking his lips. He gives low-hooded, seductive eyes as he tempts Sakusa through the cracked screen of his phone. And he knows Sakusa likes it because he squirms. 

At this point, he doesn’t care that it’s now fifteen minutes past Mr. Clean’s spotlight; it’s _Atsumu’s_ time for fame, and he will be that bitchy diva who won’t leave her seat until the crew is literally dragging her out.

He can’t hold it any longer, so he takes a plunge. 

“Omi, I _really_ like y—”

A high-pitch, metal screech cuts him off. The pipes make the most wretched sound. It’s like a banshee rising from her watery, gurgly grave to shriek at the little children who dare to get too close.

Because the pipes run from the first floor to the upper level and into the attic before wrapping down, every time there’s a flush in the house, the metal rattles, shaking the frame of the house. The pipes are out in the open, too. They’re not behind walls or covered by plaster, but they’re naked, trembling, and weak. 

The whole place lurches. 

Atsumu hears someone cursing just below the attic. It’s both muffled and coming from the direction of the second floor bathroom.

Sakusa bats his eyes a few times. “What was that? Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

Someone shouts up the attic. It’s his mom.

“Atsumu,” she calls up. “Leave the lightbulb alone, honey! Help me out downstairs. Osamu’s done it again.”

His stomach drops. You have got to be kidding him. 

Fucking Osamu being the worst cockblock ever. He should deal with the mess himself, but no, every single time this happens, it’s up to _Atsumu_. And this time, he’s with Sakusa, who will no doubt be absolutely disgusted if he figures out what Atsumu does for the unwanted love of his twin brother. 

Who says being an only child is a bad thing? Kita’s an only child, and he’s spoiled rotten by his granny. Suna’s also one, and he just shrugs and says, “Yeah, it’s pretty nice.” 

He groans. He’s on the edge of banging his head against the portrait of his great-great-granny. 

Grimacing, he apologizes to Sakusa. “Look, I gotta go. But think of me, ‘kay?” He feels so dejected. 

It wasn’t much, but he’s pretty sure heaven touched down tonight. Sakusa stayed on almost twenty minutes longer than the invisible clause in their unspoken agreement, and Atsumu can’t ask for much more. 

His face probably shows how disappointed he is, but as he hears his mom shouting for him again, this time to tell him to fetch the heavy-duty plunger and maybe some _double-_ duty duct tape, he knows it’s time to let go. 

As he lowers his phone, he hears a soft whimper. Blinking, he raises it again to catch the wispy curls of Sakusa’s hair teasing him. He looks so timid with his head lowered. Only his dark eyes peek hesitantly from between his bangs. 

“Say that again?” Atsumu asks, blinking. 

“I always think of you,” Sakusa repeats quietly, and Atsumu almost hits the “end” button out of surprise. His heart stops. “I like you, after all.” 

“Wait. Wha—”

“ _Atsumu!”_ his mom shouts, angrily this time.

Downstairs, Osamu groans miserably, his stomach almost as upset as their pitiful toilet. 

Sakusa gives a small smile. Atsumu doesn’t even have enough time to process everything before the raven-haired man ends the call. 

The screen goes black. 

Slowly, dramatically, Atsumu tips his head back against the cobwebs and dust. He stares back at his great-great-granny’s ugly portrait and giggles. He laughs giddily. His nerves are tingly.

His mom has turned full-on bear mode by this point—what with Atsumu ignoring every single call—and is yanking down the attic ladder with monstrous strength; and Osamu has probably KO’ed for the night, leaving Atsumu to take care of his entrails; but he doesn’t care about any of that. All he can hear are those five words, looping in his brain like the best playlist in the world.

It’s been such a shitty night. Yet, he can’t complain one bit. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiyoomi wants his fucking privacy. Motoya learns a secret.

Since upper grade school, Kiyoomi has shared the same class with Motoya even as the latter struggles with the advanced material. It’s not that Motoya is stupid, much as Kiyoomi likes to call Motoya a dumbass, but from a very young age, Motoya has been appointed Kiyoomi’s unofficial guardian and translator. 

Teachers terrified by the dark shroud of aura surrounding Kiyoomi instinctively alter their path for the more genial and sunshiney boy to his side; students faint at the thought of penetrating the bubble Kiyoomi’s created for himself, and they hand in their notebooks to the gloomy class rep using a mechanical grabber Motoya had bought as a gag gift for the new homeroom teacher at the beginning of the year. 

Kiyoomi had been unamused. Ironically, the device has been the class’s favorite. 

That said, having Motoya around isn’t the worst. He’s a familiar friend, and he knows Kiyoomi’s circumstances—both to do with Kiyoomi’s personal idiosyncrasies, and the reasons for them. He’s like a reliable guardpost—one that Kiyoomi’s had since they’d been first officially introduced to each other on Kiyoomi’s mother’s side. 

It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Kiyoomi tolerates and is even grateful for his presence. 

Most of the time. 

This is not one of those times: 

“ _Aww_ , Kiyo~ What’s this heart in your messages? How come there’s no name?” 

False. There is a name. Kiyoomi just chooses to endear the recipient as that “pain in the ass” guy in his phone contacts. But apparently, Motoya deems that insufficient as a proper name to repeat aloud in a classroom filled with their gossipy peers. 

God. His only saving grace from mentally imploding is that Motoya at least has two brain cells left after a lecture on information theory to know that feeding breadcrumbs to the student populace—who no doubt itch for any dirt on the most hygienic man in Tokyo—is like sending Kiyoomi to the guillotine. 

It’s not much, but it’s something. And it barely saves Motoya from having Kiyoomi’s hands wring his neck. 

Not that it’s not tempting. 

Kiyoomi stomps across the classroom. His classmates are already whispering around him. He seizes his unlocked phone from Motoya, who had apparently been snooping through his phone messages out of boredom while the spiker went to the bathroom, and sees that Motoya’s scrolled through messages as far back as last week. It’s not particularly incriminating, save for the heart messages sent most recently. But Kiyoomi’s actions probably already speak for themselves.

Without giving anything away, he scrutinizes Motoya up and down. The boy blinks as innocently as a lamb. What a faux. 

“It’s nobody,” Kiyoomi says, almost too coolly. 

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Motoya with secrets—most days, Motoya’s probably the only one he can confide truthfully in for anything. He just doesn’t want to go through the hassle of an explanation—an explanation he _knows_ he won’t be able to give because he’s still trying to logically convince his own brain that he’s not stupid or crazy, or stupid crazy for one boy in particular. 

Motoya’s not convinced. He has a calculative look in his eye, a glint like he’s marking his next move. It’s hilarious because Motoya’s eyes glaze over at the simplest explanation of differentials in math class. 

As Kiyoomi moves to pocket his phone, Motoya leaps. 

“What! Are! You! Hiding!” Motoya shouts with each successive and failed swipe. He’s like a cat trying to reach the red spot of a laser pointer it will never grab. 

Kiyoomi’s more lithe, however, and he practices the most extreme yoga poses during his weekly sessions with his personal trainer, so he dodges most of Motoya’s advances with comical contortion. 

If Kiyoomi had any dignity left, he would stop this circus charade right now, but now it’s a matter of principle—something Motoya obviously doesn’t have. He shouldn’t have been snooping through Kiyoomi’s phone, and the thought of Motoya possibly coming across anything potentially embarrassing _burns_ him. 

The play only ends once the teacher walks into the classroom and shrieks. 

Kiyoomi’s paused in a standing splits, holding the phone out of arm’s reach from Motoya as the latter has his face pushed back by the heel of Kiyoomi’s foot. It’s an easy enough pose when he’s wearing yoga pants, but his school-issued trousers don’t have nearly the same kind of flexible material, so he’s grateful for the reprieve once his teacher gathers his soul back into his body, and class begins. 

Apparently, seeing Kiyoomi performing anything outside his gloom-and-doom corner-huddle is a coronary attack waiting to happen. 

Still, Motoya’s not finished with him. Not yet. 

Even as Kiyoomi stoles away his phone into the recesses of his book bag to never be seen again (which is a fucking lie because he’s always checking for notifications from a certain somebody), Motoya drills a hole into the back of his head. He’s more focused on the individual curls on Kiyoomi’s head than he is on Tayama Katai’s insatiable fetish for young girls as represented in his cringey hundred-year-old literary work. 

Throughout the last three periods of the day, Motoya’s a menace. It’s as if the fact that Kiyoomi has something hidden from him has awakened a monster. Motoya exhibits the same kind of persistence as when they’re facing a powerful opponent in volleyball. Balled-up notes tossed to Kiyoomi’s seat when the teacher isn’t looking, interruptive kicks to the back of his foot, sly sneaks into Kiyoomi’s book bag only for Kiyoomi to remorselessly snap at his hand with a convenient ruler—he’s spiteful that Motoya sits behind him. It gives him far too much access to Kiyoomi. He should be moved across the room, or better yet, to another floor. Maybe even to another country if he finds the libero particularly unruly. He wonders if he can convince his father. 

By the end of the day, he thinks that volleyball will take Motoya’s mind off the heart messages in his phone, but apparently that requires fate to be in his favor. Which it is not. 

It is _so_ not. 

“Nice receive,” Kiyoomi mutters as he watches the ball effortlessly picked up by Motoya. 

He gets ready for an approach, gets ready for Iizuna to set the ball in a perfect arc so he can slam it down on their opponent’s side to take the match-point of this game of intra-scrimmage and then win this set beautifully—but, of course, Motoya fucks him over. 

Motoya wears an angel’s smile as he hoots, “ _Yer welcome, baby cakes~”_

Kiyoomi jumps, but he doesn’t hit the ball. He lands wordlessly. The gymnasium is quiet. The ball thunks Kiyoomi’s head before bouncing once, then twice on the ground. It rolls away. 

Everybody gapes. Their eyes are comically wide and their hearts race like horses as they wait for Kiyoomi to burst and deliver the cut-throat response they’re so used to hearing. 

Kiyoomi bursts, but it’s not the cut-throat response they were expecting. 

Kiyoomi bursts, and he bursts like a cherry. 

He’s supposed to be stoic. He’s supposed to be the prickly bastard everybody else refers to as the too-blunt-jerk, as coined by his cousin Motoya. 

What he’s _not_ supposed to be is some blushing, blubbering bambi boy upset by a nickname only one person has ever referred to him as—one that was instantly shot down as soon as it was used, but obviously the effects still remain. 

Kiyoomi balls his fists at his sides. 

That _fucker_ —that message was all the way from _last month_ . How _fucking_ far did Motoya scroll back in his private messages?

Iizuna—oh, Iizuna—is trying hard not to laugh. It’s _trying_ , because he’s failing. Epically. 

You would think that as captain, Iizuna would try to be a bit sympathetic to Kiyoomi’s unfortunate plight. Perhaps on paper the scene might look better in Iizuna’s favor—his words are acceptable, and if Kiyoomi were generous, the intent is somewhat there—but all Kiyoomi does is burn his name into the back of his mind so he can add his soon-to-be _former_ Itachiyama volleyball captain to his list later. 

“Um, _pft_ , Sakusa?” Iizuna tries and fails his one job at being a mature upperclassman. 

When Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, too busy silently fuming, Iizuna signs a cross over his heart, prays to the gods, and then speaks with his deep, serious captain-voice. 

“Um, _Baby Cakes-san_?”

Kiyoomi snaps. 

“ _Motoya_!!”

It takes an entire team of six-foot-plus tall volleyball players, two managers, one assistant coach, and one long-suffering club advisor phoning the janitor about stain remover for blood, to pry a rampaging Kiyoomi off of the too-cheeky libero. Who’s _still_ too cheeky because he has a shit-eating grin on his face as he recites more embarrassing nicknames filched illegally from Kiyoomi’s phone. 

Damn him. Damn him and his future criminal offspring. 

His mother’s blood—it’s cursed. He should’ve known from the day Motoya was introduced as his maternal aunt’s child. His innocent facade is all a front. He’s an absolute demon. 

The team manages to remove Kiyoomi. They try to do damage control: some want Motoya to apologize for whatever the strange fuck he called Kiyoomi (because “baby cakes,” seriously?), while some want Kiyoomi to apologize for nearly mauling Motoya into mincemeat. 

They’re overreacting, of course. Kiyoomi barely even got started when they pulled him off. Motoya doesn’t even have a scratch, courtesy of eight strongmen and two manager supporters holding the surprisingly strong wing spiker back. 

Though if they were alone, however…

Yep. Kiyoomi’s made up his mind. 

Motoya’s dead meat. 

But that’s for another day, Kiyoomi decides as he realizes volleyball practice is over. Normally, he’d spend his time decompressing and stretching his long limbs after practice, but he’s not exactly in a great headspace right now. 

So he takes his crap and leaves. He shares a swift goodbye—something that’s more obligatory than anything—with the coaches who are used to Kiyoomi’s eccentricities and the fact they can’t really do anything about it, so they just watch him stroll out of the gym as if he hadn’t nearly committed fratricide. 

He takes a detour behind the school so he doesn’t have to deal with any more headaches today—that way, he won’t have to see the inevitable black, nondescript car parked in front of the school’s entrance waiting for him. 

The path cuts through a few nearby residential neighborhoods, a small playground for kids, before taking him along a river trail. It’s a long route, one that is completely out of character for him and will assuredly catch him some looks when he returns home where only his mother anxiously awaits him, but it’s a much needed one. 

Kiyoomi’s too lost in his head to realize that his book bag has been buzzing for a while.

He reaches inside and takes out his phone. 

It’s Atsumu. 

Smiling, Kiyoomi pauses his stride. The effect is instantaneous. The world around him melts away, and he relaxes like pudding.

When he opens up the message, he huffs out a breathy laugh. 

It’s a picture of Atsumu on the gym bench, expression too absorbed in a match playing on an iPad to realize his teammates had started stacking flower crowns on top of his head. The crowns are atrocious, but the flowers are pretty. White daisies and yellow avens—probably stolen from Inarizaki’s school garden. He’s sent a picture of that before, too. It was also pretty. 

Atsumu captions the photo: _These fuckers. They said they tried to find pansies, but then they realized they had one in front of them the whole time._

There’s another photo. It’s of Atsumu’s teammates. They’re eating meat buns outside a convenience store. Atsumu’s twin has his cheeks full like a chipmunk, and Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu looks just as adorable, or even more cute, with his cheeks full. 

The last photo is of a sunset, sent only two minutes ago. It’s coupled by his most recent message: _Are ya seeing this? Cuz if ya are, doesn’t it kind of feel like we’re in the same place?_

Kiyoomi’s heart settles into a soothing lull. He’s so used to the skips-like-records in his heart whenever he’s with Atsumu, but it’s moments like these, the quieter moments where amidst chaos and worries, Atsumu calms him, assuages him—to Kiyoomi, Atsumu is his comfort. He’s his guilty pleasure, his drop of ocean indulgence. At the end of the day, Atsumu resets everything back at zero. At the beginning. Firm restart. No worries about yesterday. No more unnecessary burden. 

It’s freeing.

Sliding down the grassy knoll, Kiyoomi tries to find a good shot to return to Atsumu. 

He takes a few photos of the sunset—the same one Atsumu sees right now, two and a half hours away—before settling on one and sending it. He doesn’t caption it. He doesn’t know what he _would_ caption it, so he just hopes Atsumu receives the message:

_Yes. I do_. 

It isn’t even two seconds later before Atsumu sends back a response. This time, there’s no photo attached. It’s just simple text, but it makes his heart stutter. 

_Summer break. Can I come up?_

Kiyoomi freezes. 

His hand hovers above his keyboard. There’s a clear _read_ receipt that’s shown that at least five minutes have passed since Kiyoomi’s mind has malfunctioned. 

Atsumu wants to come up. Atsumu… wants to come _here._

A part of him is excited. In the past couple of months, they’ve only seen each other twice. Once at the National Youth Training Camp, and a second time when Kiyoomi traveled down to Amagasaki to greet his father’s side of the family in Osaka for his grandfather’s birthday. They’d both been awkward occasions. During his visit to Amagasaki, the two of them kind of just sat on a park bench wondering what the heck they were even supposed to do on a “first date”—it really was their first date, and they were both truly clueless. They couldn’t even kiss. They couldn’t even _hold hands_. And not by virtue of Kiyoomi that time. 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t like either occasion. Honestly, he loves revisiting the memories and recalling the way Atsumu stiffly greeted him at the train station, how he offered to take Kiyoomi’s bags, how he tried to pay for their frozen yogurt only to realize Osamu had stolen all his money and left a giant _fuck-you_ note in his wallet because Atsumu _still_ wouldn’t return Osamu’s jackets. Kiyoomi had laughed back then, and the bright light in Atsumu’s eyes almost made the uncharacteristic gesture worth it. 

But the logical part of his brain, the side riddled with math equations and routine and anxiety, is terrified. 

He should say no. If Atsumu wants to see Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi can just take the train down to Amagasaki. Atsumu doesn’t need to visit. 

Because if Atsumu visits, then he’s going to expect to be invited inside Kiyoomi’s home. And if he’s _not_ invited inside, then he’s going to _force_ his way inside, or die whining. 

And if there’s something Kiyoomi isn’t willing to share yet with the charmingly soft boy, it’s what’s found inside his home. Or more specifically, _who_. 

He should curtail the conversation. He’ll make some excuse, like renovation or something, maybe a meteor fell from the sky and landed on his house—either way, Atsumu _can’t_ come visit him in Tokyo. Atsumu might be put out that Kiyoomi’s the only one spending money to see him, but Kiyoomi has bucks to blow. And it’s going toward a good cause… he thinks. 

He’s still not sure why he’s invested in this relationship, or why he’s unwilling to let it go. 

Right as he’s about to reply to Atsumu, he hears it. 

The battle cry of a manic Motoya. 

_Shit_ —

He should have never told Motoya that his cousin’s touch is surprisingly okay. That it doesn’t make his skin writhe like others. That he’s one of the small few. 

Because if he hadn’t done that, then maybe Motoya would be a bit more hesitant about jumping onto Kiyoomi’s back and wrestling him to the ground like an overgrown baby WWE martial stuntman. 

They roll across the grassy knoll, and Kiyoomi hates the fact that he can feel the dirt and rocks bruising him through his clothes. 

“ _Argh, you_ idiot!”

“Who is it? Tell me, fucking _Lovey Yummers_!” 

Kiyoomi wrenches his phone out of Motoya’s grasp, because if there wasn’t anything discerning enough to clearly pinpoint a certain individual before, then there sure as hell is now, considering Atsumu just sent him a bunch of photos of himself and Inarizaki. 

Kiyoomi pushes Motoya’s grimy face away from him and attempts to crawl away. 

Key word: attempts. 

“ _Why_ ,” Kiyoomi grunts out as Motoya pulls him back by the ankles, “do you even want to know?” 

“Because!”

“Because _why_?”

“Just _tell_ me!”

“Get _off_ me,” Kiyoomi says, letting out a huff as he’s resorted to petty toddler kicks. He feels like a child learning how to swim. And Motoya is the fucking sea creature who just won’t let go. 

Motoya finds his opportunity to snatch Kiyoomi’s phone when Kiyoomi thinks he’s kicked Motoya out of the count, and he rolls across the grass like he’s rolling across the center court after a hard serve-receive, holding Kiyoomi’s phone close to his chest like it’s something precious. 

His cousin’s eyes light up when he realizes Kiyoomi’s phone is unlocked. 

Kiyoomi’s heart lurches. 

The wing spiker flings himself across Motoya’s body and acts on instinct. 

The phone flies out of both of their hands, sails the air like a beautiful bird, before arcing straight into the river with a quiet _plup_. 

Kiyoomi’s first thought is one of relief. At least now, Motoya doesn’t and can’t know. It’s a collecting calm before the storm. Reassuring. Comforting. 

But then his second thought is panic. And by sheer virtue of sending Kiyoomi into a state of emotional instability, the first benefit is immediately rendered useless. 

Kiyoomi crawls on his knees, inspecting the invisible damage of the dark river water as if he can see his phone through the waves. He murmurs, “Miya…” He stands up and jogs into the river, mind too hazed to recognize that his shoes and pants are getting wet. 

He can’t lose his phone. His phone has Atsumu. It has his dorky messages, his lame attempts at flirting, his pretty pictures, and his comforting collection that makes Kiyoomi feel better even on his worst days. 

Shit. _Shit._

His trousers are completely soaked, and he’s pretty sure he looks like a mess. 

If only he hadn’t left his phone alone during passing time. If only he hadn’t saved all of Atsumu’s messages. If only he hadn’t been so fucking prideful about just being _honest_ with Motoya. 

Fuck. He left Atsumu on _read_. 

Is he going to think Kiyoomi doesn’t want to see Atsumu?

Motoya blinks at Kiyoomi. 

Oh, right. Motoya just heard Kiyoomi muttering “Miya” like a sutra; he’s probably shocked. And probably has questions. 

He sinks into depression.

“Which one?” is Motoya’s first question. He’s oddly quiet—serious for once. 

“The blond,” Kiyoomi sighs. Might as well give up now.

“Atsumu?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“A few months.”

“No,” Motoya presses, hard and insistent. “ _How_ _long_?” Because, of course, Motoya knows that Kiyoomi’s a stickler for numbers. 

Kiyoomi gives up on finding his phone. It’s lost to the waves. He comes back to shore, wringing out his shirt as he goes. He’s emotionless as he says, “The youth camp, I think.” 

It’s not _I think_ , but _I know_. That’s when Atsumu had asked him out. But if he’s being completely honest, it’s probably only because Kiyoomi wouldn’t stop staring at him during camp. 

Motoya shouts, eyes large. “That’s almost six months!”

“Your point?”

As Motoya undergoes the same existential crisis Kiyoomi himself went through approximately six months ago, he lays himself down on the grassy knoll. He takes off his shoes because wet shoes are gross. 

He feels sick. This is the worst day ever. 

“Hey, Kiyo. Are you alright?” Motoya asks after a moment, because apparently there’s still a part of him that acts the part of the saintly cousin when Kiyoomi is nearing an anxiety breakdown. 

Kiyoomi buries his head in his knees, wraps his arms around them. His voice is quiet. 

“You’re insufferable.”

Motoya takes the seat next to him. Kiyoomi shoves him away, sniffling, but Motoya just comes back, undeterred. 

“It’s not my fault you wouldn’t tell me who it was.”

“How the hell is that my fault? Whatever I do—and _whoever_ I do it with—is my business, not yours. And it certainly doesn’t warrant the harassment you’ve given me today.”

Motoya has the decency to flinch at that. “I just don’t get it. _You_ ? _Dating_? That can’t be good.”

Kiyoomi digs his nails into his arm. “What would you know?”

“Because it’s _Miya_ —I mean, Atsumu. He’s a jerk. Not to say you aren’t a jerk either, but you’re different kinds of jerks.”

“So because you think you have a point, it automatically annuls everything you’ve done?”

The privacy invasion was one thing—having it spill into the classroom and onto the court was another. Then he lost his phone to the fishes. 

Motoya doesn’t respond—can’t respond. Not only did the genes for studiousness go to Kiyoomi, so did the genes for debate. 

For someone who’s supposed to understand Kiyoomi better than anybody else, he’s lacking a lot of words right now. Just because someone unofficially appointed Motoya so many years ago as his designated guardian, it doesn’t mean they’re suddenly committed to each other. 

“Cousins are supposed to tell each other stuff,” Motoya mumbles. 

“Shut up. Blood relations don’t mean anything.” 

Kiyoomi knows. Motoya knows. He’s seen Kiyoomi’s family. 

Motoya retracts that statement, a bit embarrassed. “ _Friends_ share the important stuff with each other.”

Kiyoomi considers Motoya a friend. Probably his closest friend, as much as he loathes to admit it. 

“And what? If I don’t share my melon bread with you, we’ll stop being friends? It shouldn’t be conditional, idiot,” Kiyoomi says, watching the sun dip below the horizon. 

There’s no hope in going to the store now for a new phone. His mother has probably already called the cops, distraught by her son’s uncharacteristic tardiness, and if he doesn’t return soon, there’ll be a worse file on record. His father will probably receive a report from his friend at the station. 

“You know,” says Motoya. He’s twisting his bag strap between his fingers. “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Kiyo. I know what you mean when you speak, but I can’t read your mind. I guess I got too used to having to know everything about Sakusa Kiyoomi.” 

It’s an apology—a shitty apology, but an apology nonetheless. 

But Kiyoomi’s sorry, too. All because of who Kiyoomi is, Motoya got pulled along into something he probably never wanted anything to do with. If it were Kiyoomi, he would have gotten tired of having to know somebody else better than himself long ago. He’s mildly surprised Motoya’s managed this long. 

“You don’t have to,” Kiyoomi breathes out. He squeezes his palms once, then twice. “You’re not my keeper; you’re my friend. And sometimes friends don’t know everything about each other—they don’t _have_ to. No one’s gonna fault you for something that’s outside of your control.”

He should have told Motoya this years ago. He feels guilty for not. 

Kiyoomi sighs. “Just—you know now. I would have told you eventually. Only just…”

“When you were ready,” is what Motoya manages to fill in for him, and then it dawns on the libero. 

“Yeah.”

He wonders what Atsumu’s thinking now. He wonders if he still has the messily scrawled notepad sheet with the setter’s phone number on it. He’s pretty sure he tore it up a long time ago when he was afraid somebody might be snooping in his room. 

God. He’s _so_ not looking forward to another conversation for an advance on his allowance so he can buy another phone. He wonders if he can bypass security and find Atsumu’s social media to get in contact with him. Or would that look stupid? 

No, he already made peace with the fact that he probably had a screw loose in his brain for liking Atsumu. He’d long transgressed the threshold of stupidity, and now he’s entered the realm of desperation, or as Motoya likes to put it—

“You’re whipped,” the libero laughs, and it’s only then that Kiyoomi realizes he’d been talking out loud. 

Kiyoomi groans, mortified. 

He shoves the libero harshly to the side, but the boy just returns like a boomerang, glomping onto Kiyoomi when he realizes the wing spiker easily submits to blushes when it concerns a certain blond setter. It’s perfect blackmail material, made even better by the fact Kiyoomi doesn’t seem mad at him anymore.

“Hey, hey~” Motoya chirps like a bird Kiyoomi would love to strangle. “Tell me all about how you _love_ Atsumu~”

Oh. He’s starting to regret his decision. Why on earth would he ever feel guilty for this sinful cretin? 

“C’mon! Tell your friend all the saucy details on your love life!”

Kiyoomi sighs, long and hard. His fingers twitch.

Truly, what are the repercussions of fratricide really?

If there happens to be a report the next day on an Itachiyama student found lying face-up in corpse pose, enshrined in pansies near Shibuya River, know that it has absolutely nothing to do with Kiyoomi.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, consider leaving a kudos or comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts ♡


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